08. the kind of reckless that should send me running

title | the kind of reckless that should send me running
chapter | 1/1
rating | pg-13
characters/pairings | Blair-centric. Dan/ Blair
summary |  She hates everything about him.
notes | This is just mindless fluff. Like, don't even look for anything even remotely affecting here. Writing current canon makes me want to shoot myself, so this is set in an AU world post 4x17 where the prince and the pregnancy don't exist. I also don't think I mention Chuck once, so pretend he's gone to Iowa to be a potato farmer or something and no one cares about him anymore. AS THEY SHOULDN'T.

For a person who claims to love books so much, he sure reads slow. Sometimes, when they're sitting across from each other at the coffee shop, she'll eye him over the top of her magazine. He'd be chewing on the end of a pen (like that's hygienic) and plodding his way through one of her first-editions, treating the pages like they're made of diamonds, only turning the page once every fifteen minutes or so.

"You're such a slow reader."

"I'm a thorough reader."

"What are you implying? That I'm not a thorough reader?"

"You said it, not me."

She didn't let him borrow any of her books for two whole months - not until he'd apologized thoroughly enough for her liking.





She hates his hair. It makes her want to stab something just thinking about it.

She watched as it slowly passed from acceptable to acceptable for a hipster to acceptable for a shaggy dog to acceptable for a hobo to unacceptable in all places, shapes and forms, no exceptions granted. What made things infinitely worse was that he was refusing to shave and there was an actual beard growing on his face, bushy dark hair invading his chin.

No one except her could comprehend the severity of the situation though - Serena had giggled and told Dan she found it attractive and Nate was currently attempting to ruin his own life by growing his own beard.

She was close to begging on her hands and knees. "Just let me cut it!"

"Blair, give me the scissors."

"I swear, I'm giving you an ultimatum. Cut your hair or I'm never speaking to you again."

"I like it like this."

"You like that it annoys me!"

"I don't tell you to do with your hair!"

"Because I don't venture out of my house looking like I'm just about to discover fire!"

"You're so aggravating! I will wear my hair how I want!"

"Look, it's not just about you, Nate's trying to grow a beard now too! God, you're such a bad influence!"

She couldn't convince him to cut his hair or shave his beard for close to two months, not by any usual methods of scheming (he was a light sleeper and caught her five times trying to cut his hair in the middle of the night) or bribery ("Look at this first-edition autographed Proust!"). She gave up trying eventually, but it still made her eyes roll when she saw him with Nate at brunch, both looking ridiculous in their two thousand dollar suits and matching caveman beards, and made her bite her lip when she saw Serena leaning into him and running her fingers through his wild hair.

When he does cut his hair, they're at the opera and she almost doesn't recognize him when he comes up the stairs and walks toward her with a huge grin. He's cleanly shaved and his hair is trimmed neatly, curls tamed. For a moment, he looks so strikingly handsome against the lights that she doesn't know what to say - she'd forgotten how well he could clean up.

"Hey," he grins at her slack-jawed surprise. "Remember me?"

She stops gaping and instead grumbles, "Finally." Her eyes linger around his mouth, at his jaw and his neck. He looks so different and she can't stop staring.

Nate sidles up to them, still full-bearded, looking put out. "Aw, man, you shaved!" 

"I know, sorry."

"So much for beard buddies."

"It was about time." Blair frowns. What is wrong with her? She can't seem to stop looking at him. "Now we can reintegrate him into society. And as for you, Nate Archibald, there's no reason to keep that monstrosity on your chin any longer."

Halfway through the second act of the opera, Dan nudges her with his elbow. "Stop staring at me," he whispers. "Devastatingly handsome as I may be..."

She snorts too loudly, "Please."

"...it's distracting me and I can't pay attention."

"I'm not staring at you," she huffs. "You're imagining things." Even as she speaks, her eyes drop to his mouth.

"You're still doing it!" His voice is practically dripping with glee. 

She shoves his arm off her. "Shut up," she mumbles and she doesn't look at him the rest of the night.






She hates that he knows her timetable. She makes a face just thinking about it.

She hates that he knows where she's studying in the library on Mondays (sneaks up on her as she's scowling into her History textbook, makes her jump by poking her in the ribs), where her classes are (leans up against a pillar outside her Econ lecture on Thursday afternoons so they can have dinner together after), which coffee shops on campus she frequents (argues with her about Tolstoy and sits so close she can smell the cappucino on his breath), which tree she likes to sit under and study (brings her coffee and then lies in the sun with his iPod on writing in his moleskin while she reads, the heel of her shoe brushing against his jeans).

"You're like, always around," she observes, scrunching her nose at him as he drops his bag with a thud beside her and stretches out to lay on the green lawn. "You don't actually go to Columbia, you know that, right?"

"I was here to see Nate," he clarifies.

She takes a bite of her apple delicately. "Nate," she says, frowning. "Right."

"Well, we're trading off years, you see." He squints at her in the sunlight, grinning. "Last year, he made the trip to NYU all the time to hang with me, this year, it's my turn."

"Doesn't it take forever to get here?"

He shrugs noncommittally. "Like an hour."

"Your love affair is seriously nauseating. God, the sheer lengths you'll go to to be with him."

He sits up on his elbows lazily, nudges her bare calf with his knee. "Stop with the mocking. Our love is pure." At her snort, he sits up straighter, his eyes playful. "Nate's friendship is important to me. And I like hanging out with Nate more than I like hanging out with anyone else. And I, uh, like being with...Nate and I really look forward to the times I can, uh, be with...Nate because he makes me really happy. So, it's not such a huge sacrifice."*

She blinks at him curiously. "I was just joking about the love affair stuff before, but now I'm positive you two are having a torrid affair behind my back."

He laughs and lies back down again. "Oh, Blair."

"So next year?" She takes another bite of her apple and tries for nonchalance.

"His turn to come to NYU. So you won't have to see me around campus all the time anymore."

She frowns again and turns back to her book. "I see."






She hates the fact that he's on her speed dial. She almost wants to wretch a little just thinking about it.

It's not out of choice, it really isn't. She has over 900 contacts in her phone - she can't help how widely sought after and popular she is. There are almost a hundred people under D alone and she was getting sick of meticulously scrolling through her phone looking for his name and inevitably scrolling too far and then having to scroll back up, and then scrolling too far up and having to scroll back down, and then scrolling too far again - no, really, it was an absolute necessity that he be put on speed dial or it'd take her five minutes to just find his name alone. She's a busy person, it's a logistics thing. 

The day he found out was close to the worst day of her life. His phone had died and he needed to call Serena and she'd given him her phone, told him to just look through the speed dial list.

"Hey, I'm on your speed dial."

She had a quick thought of snatching the phone out of his hand and stomping on it with her heel before he could blink again and confirm the fact. She set her mouth in a thin line instead, her voice shrill and high-pitched, defensive without really knowing why. "Look, I have 900 contacts in my phone, okay? I'm a widely sought after and popular person and I'm insanely busy and I don't have time to work out the precious mechanics of Apple's scrolling system and..."

"You're on mine too." His grin was way too big to not be infectious. "So stop freaking out."

She fought a smile. "I am?"

"Yeah," he gave a quick shrug. "I mean, after my dad and the pizza place downstairs."

She wrinkled her nose, trying not to be offended. "You put me after the pizza place downstairs?"

He poked her in the ribs, laughing. "Are you jealous? I'm sorry, your friendship is nice and all, but there's no contest really."

She made a face and snatched her phone from his hand. "Ugh, I can't stand you."






She hates how well she knows the ride to Brooklyn. A vein in her forehead throbs just thinking about it.

She hates that she knows what turns they need to take, which routes are the fastest on which days and where the speed cameras are. She knows what red lights they need to run if they want to make it over the bridge before peak hour (the third on 125th, the second just after Chinatown or if it's a Saturday night, they need to just run all of them or she won't make it there before Sunday afternoon).

She hates that knowing little smirk her driver gets when she barks at him Brooklyn - she hates that he knows exactly what she means, that he doesn't even ask her to narrow down her destination request from a hundred square mile borough to one specific place. He just knows and it frightens, enrages and relieves her all at once. In all seriousness, she would have fired him by now, except she's not sure she could handle the shame of anyone else knowing about her all too frequent sojourns over the bridge. 

"You know," Dan says through a mouthful of cereal, "you could take the train. It would cut your travel time in half."

"I'd rather not sample the various bodily fluids New York's subway system has to offer, thank you." He shakes his head at her, but he's smiling and there's a milk moustache growing on his top lip that she desperately wants to wipe off. Instead, she pokes at her bowl of Frosted Flakes suspiciously. "I know you were raised by a pack of hipster wolves and everything, but when you have a guest over, you do not serve them cereal for dinner."

He grins at her. "Suck it up, princess."

"You could at least offer to order in," she grouses. "Or run down and get a girl a salad. How did you ever get laid, really?"

He puts down his empty bowl of cereal and picks up hers, shoveling her untouched food it into his mouth. "I've got moves," he insists. "I'm just choosing not to waste them on you." 

She stares at him, milk on his upper lip, squashed curls, mouth full of food. He looks so normal, like any cute college boy from any small town who doesn't own a billion-dollar corporation or belong to a political dynasty or play games with hotels and seven figure trust funds. Just a boy who still cuts himself shaving sometimes and who drinks milk from the carton and who eats cereal for dinner because he can't be bothered. It used to be why she couldn't stand Dan Humphrey - she doesn't know when she started to find it endearing. "I find that hard to believe," she manages to use her most imperious tone.

"Because you wouldn't appreciate them."

"Because they're non-existent."

He scoffs, "Oh, they exist. How do you think I landed Serena?"

Without meaning to, her mouth sets in a frown. "Serena has distorted decision-making facilities. She doesn't count." She folds her arms primly, looks him up and down. "Let's see these moves then."

He sighs, long-suffering. "I don't show my moves to just anybody."

"I'm not just anybody. I'm Blair Waldorf." She's slightly offended. 

"You'd never appreciate them." 

That is true.

"I don't have to appreciate them, but I could help you improve." She offers him her most angelic face. "I'd wager that these moves are pretty sub-par if of all the girls you've landed, one got married in Barcelona to a scam artist who tried to rob her and her family of all their money, thus proof of her poor decision-making skills; another was from Iowa, no explanation needed there; another was actually Satan in human clothing, another was Vanessa Abrams," she ignores his meek protest of 'hey', "and another recently got committed to the Ostroff Center for not taking her meds because she's crazypants."

He looks vaguely put out for a moment before wondering, "Are you keeping tabs on me?"

She ignores his remark and steamrolls on. "Everyone you've dated either has a proven history of insanity or is from the Mid-West. Your moves are probably pathetic. I mean, really, you're lucky that I'm sitting here offering to give you pointers because chances are, you will never land anyone of sound mental health again."

"Okay, fine." He wipes his mouth with a teatowel and circles the kitchen counter to come stand beside her. "What do you want to see?"

She knows exactly what she wants to see, but she rids herself of that thought as quickly as can and says instead, "What do you think is your best one? Or you know, the one that sucks the least?"

He blows out his breath in small gusts, looking nervous. "Okay, well, like...there's a...just before..." he can't stop stammering and tripping over his words and she can't help the laughter that ripples out of her. He stares at her, ears turning tomato red. "Okay, you're laughing, we're done."

Before he can turn away, she grabs onto the flimsy fabric of his t-shirt and tugs him closer. "No," she pouts. "You're such a quitter. Don't be such a girl and just do it."

He chews on his lip, still blushing. "Okay, fine."

She smirks a little. "Give it your best shot, tiger."

He looks down and doesn't meet her eye, shy all of a sudden. "There's a moment. We're talking and suddenly we both fall silent and...we can both feel it, that something's shifted and there's a...moment." He raises his eyes to meet hers and she's taken aback by how deep and earnest they are, dewy-looking in the dim lights. She swallows, wonders briefly why her heart is pounding in her ribcage, if he can hear it, if he can feel it.

He leans forward, all in her personal space, and ordinarily she'd frown and tell him to respect a girl's privacy, but her mouth is dry and she's not sure she has full control her voice now anyway. She can feel her face burn up at his gaze - she can't stop looking at him, at the way he's staring at her, wide-eyed, at the sharp line of his jaw and the shadow of his cheekbones. He brings up one hand to tuck a stray curl behind her ear and the other to frame the side of her face. "I'd say..." his voice is low and gravelly, strange sounding to her ears. "I'd say, 'Blair, you look really pretty tonight.'"

He's close, so close, and part of her hopes he won't get closer, because he'll wonder at her shallow breath and the thunderous beating of her heart and she won't be able to play plausible deniability any longer. But another part of her is screaming, and that part can't stop staring at his mouth, at the tiny dent on his lower lip. She remembers the last time and the memory of it burns all the way through her, the feel of him against her, his hands in her hair. For one slow second, she wants it, wants him so badly, it's almost painful. 

"And then," he breathes an inch away from her lips and her eyes flutter closed, hands reaching for his neck. This, this, she had been waiting for this since the night of the... "And then, I kiss her." Suddenly, his hands slip from her face and there's a rush of cold air. Her eyes fly open, disappointed, and he's standing on the other side of the kitchen counter again, looking half embarassed, half smug.

She clears her throat, tries to find her voice. "That was...passable."

There's a hint of a smirk on his face. "Told you I had moves." 






She hates his taste in just about everything. It makes her want to dry heave just thinking about it.

"You called me a dictator taste," she tells him at some dungeon of a wedding gift registry in Williamsburg. She doesn't even have to look at him to know he's rolling his eyes. "And if I'm a dictator of taste then I dictate that yours is terrible. This is the ugliest china set I've seen in my life."

He takes both her hands in his and looks her seriously in the eyes. "My mom registered for this gift, Blair," he says solemnly. "Which means she wants it. Which means she is not going to appreciate it if I get her something else, something she did not register for, just because some snooty girl in a hat told me to." He tugs on her beret with a smirk, leaving it hanging skewered on her head.

She glares at him while she fixes her hat. "Well, bad taste is obviously hereditary then."

Blair's known about his mom's second wedding to some Rastafarian weed-smoking hippie for a while now. She knows he's the best man, despite having only met his future stepfather twice in his life and she knows they're having it down in Hudson like a pack of uncivilized animals. She knows his sister is designing the dresses (and they'll be hideous) and she knows he's been agonizing over his best man speech for weeks now. And she knows he has a plus one and the fact that he hasn't asked her, or even mentioned it in passing, irks her so much she can hardly stand it.

It's not that she even wants to go - god, she'd rather wear polyester - but the fact that he hasn't even considered her is a bothersome fact in itself. She wonders if he asked Serena. Ugh. Whatever, she really doesn't care.

Except she does. She saw the hurt in his face when he got the invitation, she hears the stilted, awkward conversations he has on the phone with his mom. She knows what it feels like when a parent just up and leaves and then moves on without you. She told him all about her dad once, curled up on his couch with a mug of steaming hot tea. It was too dark for him to see her cry but he felt it as he wrapped his arms around her, tears soaking through his T-shirt. He was there for her - didn't he trust her enough to be there for him?

The night before the wedding, she just blurts it out. He's lying on her bed like he belongs there, flicking through a textbook, highlighting the occasional passage and she can't hold her tongue any longer. Somewhere in the back of her head, the part of her that still has pride and dignity is cringing, but a bigger part of her just needs to know. "Did you ask Serena to go with you to your mom's wedding tomorrow?"

He crinkles his brow and looks at her in surprise. "What? No. My mom hates Lily and she's not too fond of Serena either."

"So you didn't ask her?"

"No, I'm going alone." He eyes her suspiciously. "Where's all this coming from?"

"Nowhere," she snaps too quickly. "Stop annoying me."

He puts his book down slowly and stares at her, unblinking. "Blair." His voice is edging on playful, like an adult trying to sweet-talk a child. "Did you want to come with me?"

She sniffs, "Don't be ridiculous."

"You can if you want." His mouth is twitching to keep from smiling.

God, he's so insufferable. With an almighty eye roll, she shoves him, hard, and to drive the point home, hits him a few times with her goosefeather pillow. "Well, I don't," she scowls.

He stretches out and leans back, the top of his head brushing against her side. He's playing with the fabric on her comforter and not looking her in the eye. "I was going to ask," he begins and he chuckles a little, like the thought is preposterous. "But I didn't think you'd want to go."

She arches an eyebrow. "Why not?" she huffs, slightly put out.

He laughs, tilts his head back so he can look at her. "Do you really need me to answer that?"

She blows out her breath and can't help but be a little annoyed. "But if you wanted me to go as friends to support you or whatever, I would've said yes."

His smile is soft, nervous almost. "Really?"

Quietly, without really thinking about it, she tucks her hand under his chin and offers him a small smile. "My dad left too. I know what it's like."

It all goes better than she expected. In all honesty, she didn't know what she expected - some of his hicktown relatives letting off guns during the vows? For Jenny Humphrey to be so enraged at the sight of her that she starts pulling her hair? Something like that.

Dan drives them both down in his tin can of a car and even though the pleather seats are ruining her custom-made dress, they leave the windows rolled down and she pokes her head out, doesn't even care about the wind ruining her hair. They drive into the horizon and the sky is a color she's never seen before, a deep purple almost. She almost wishes she could paint just so she could commit the sight to paper.
 
It's not the greatest wedding she's been to, but she ignores Jenny glaring daggers at her from the altar in a monstrosity of a bridesmaid dress, just like she ignored Dan's mother side-eyeing her when she came in on her son's arm, just like she's ignoring the faint haze of pot that seems to be emanating from Dan's new stepfather. She focuses on Dan instead, on the nervous line of his face and how he keeps ruining the whole hour she and Dorota spent on his hair by running his fingers through it constantly. 

After - after making awkward, small talk with his mother, yes, I am the girl that banished your daughter from the city and tried to ruin her life; after his grandparents look her up and down incredulously and she has to clarify for the ninth time that she's not his girlfriend; after all of his male cousins and several of his female ones too hit on her - after all that, they dance on the deck of the hotel, the wind picking up around them, blowing wisps of her hair into her face. The jazz band playing is mediocre at best and she's getting so cold she can hardly feel her feet...and honestly, Dan is probably the worst dancer in the world but. But. There's something about this moment that makes her squeeze her eyes shut and murmur to herself: remember this.

"I'm glad you're here," he mumbles into her hair.

"I told you so," she mumbles back. She's too tired to talk.

"I didn't..." he sighs, his nose still pressed into the top of her head. "I didn't want to admit I was so upset about her getting married. In spite of all the weed..."

"And the not bathing," she points out sleepily.

"...in spite of all that, Steve's a nice guy. I should be happy for her. But I guess a part of me always thought she'd come back, you know? That she and my dad would get back together and me and Jenny would have two functional parents living under one roof again." He groans, tightens his grip around her hand unconsciously. "God, I can't believe I thought that, even after Dad got married to Lily. I'm a bad person, aren't I?"

"There are many things wrong with you," she concedes and his laugh rumbles through her, makes her smile, "but this isn't one of them. I mean," she takes a breath, "my mom is married to Cyrus and she's happier than she ever was...and my dad is gay and there's still a part of me that still thinks they'll get back together and it'll be like it used to be. I don't think there'll ever be a part of me that will stop wishing for that."

He stares at her for the longest time and there's something in his eye that she can't quite decipher, that makes her nervous and makes her blush deep pink. "What?" she frowns at him. "Do I have something in my teeth?"

"No, I just..." His voice is a little hoarse. "It's nothing. You're perfect."

"You're being weird," she says in a small voice and then she buries her nose back into his chest again, lets her eyes flutter shut to the steady beat of his heart.

Her eyes fly open the second she recognizes the opening strains of Moon River. She lifts her head up and she can't stop the smile that's stretching itself from cheek to cheek. "I love this song," she says to him and he's staring at her again, the way he was staring at her before, like he can't stop.

"Moon river," She doesn't really have a voice made for singing - it's nothing more than a faint, trembly falsetto, really - but this night, this song...him, and she can't help herself. "Wider than a mile."

"I'm crossing you in style, someday," he finishes for her and it's her turn to stare at him, surprise growing in her eyes. He grins, whispers close to her ear, "I'm full of surprises, Waldorf."

That's how they spend the rest of the night, him clinging so tightly to her (or is it the other way around?), his chest pressed against hers, his fingers stroking the length of her arms, of her waist, cheek pressed into the side of her head, mouth on the edge of her ear, half-singing, half-whispering the words to a song she memorized long ago.

Two drifters off to see the world...






She hates his friends. Honestly, she rolls her eyes just thinking about them.

If she had to be specific, she hates Nate. She hates this weird little, homoerotic relationship he and Dan have cultivated over the past few years, a relationship that leaves her in the cold and apparently makes them forget their respective loyalties to her. She's the third side in a weird friendship triangle and she hates it.

"Naaaate," she whines, tugs on the cuff of his shirt. "Tell me."

"Blair, I'm trying to study!" 

She huffs a little, crosses her legs and folds her arms. "Nate Archibald," she says sweetly, tries a different tactic. "Remember that time we dated for about ten years and I thought I was going to marry you and then you slept with my best friend?"

She sees Nate gulp and put down his highlighter. "Blair, it's not my place to tell you," he hisses. "Why don't you just ask Dan?"

She gives a long-suffering sigh. "I told you, he keeps avoiding me. He never answers my calls, he's always weird and fidgety and everytime I come into a room, he makes up an excuse to leave."

"Maybe you're emitting some kind of strange body odor," Nate suggests weakly. "Or maybe it's something you did. You know what, it's probably because of that one time you made him shave his beard off and he's still bitter."

Blair eyes her ex-boyfriend suspiciously. "Are you still bitter about that?"

Nate gives a small mumble of 'no'.

"Nate, just tell me! There's an Audrey retrospective uptown and if you don't tell me, I might have to find someone else to go with...and that someone might be you."

She watches him blanche a little at the thought. Finally, with a long sigh, Nate throws down his pen and leans toward her, conspiratorially. "Okay, I'll tell you, but you can't tell anyone, okay?" 

She rolls her eyes but nods anyway. "I won't tell, I swear."

Nate doesn't look like he believes her but after glancing shiftily around for any eavesdroppers, he leans forward. "Dan had...a dream."

She can't help the way an eyebrow inches toward her hairline. "That's it?" she repeats disbelievingly. "He's not talking to me because he had a dream?"

"He had a dream about you," Nate clarifies slowly. "Of the...erotic persuasion."

Her throat starts to feel very dry. "Wait, what?"

"The kind that ends with sheets needing to be washed and cold showers having to be had," Nate adds, rather unnecessarily. "The kind that..."

"Okay," Blair lets out a strangled yelp. "I get it!"

"And now, he says, he can't look at you without imagining you naked. So he's avoiding you."

She doesn't quite know how to process this information. She knows she's furious - that much is certain. The first healthy, functional friendship she's probably ever had in her life, and he goes and ruins it by dreaming about her naked? That was just great. Just perfect. (She doesn't think about the other part of her, the overwhelmingly, embarassingly large part of her that's curious and inquisitive, the part that's wondering how it played out in his dream, the part that's flattered thinking about him horny and turned on by her - no, she doesn't think about that part at all, stamps down hard on that part of her.)

"You can't tell anyone," Nate reminds her again. "Blair, do not tell Serena."

"I won't," she insists. 

"You're lying," Nate sounds depressed. "You're totally going to tell her."

She is lying. She totally is going to tell Serena. She can't help it. Serena is her best friend and she can't keep this huge, OMG-worthy piece of information locked away to herself. She's impatient all the way home, buzzing, knees knocking together in the elevator up to her penthouse. 

"S!" She trips out of her heels and hurries up the stairs toward Serena's room. "S, I have to tell you some...Oh."

Oh, indeed. There he is, Dan, of the dirty-dream-having kind, sitting on Serena's bed with her computer on his lap, with Serena perched beside him. "You," she narrows her eyes at him.

"Hi," he mumbles and he has the decency to look shame-faced. She notes, half-furious, half-pleased, the way his eyes linger far too long on her bare legs and then at the cut of her top. God, the dirty pervert. 

"We're planning Mom and Rufus's anniversary party," Serena chimes in cheerfully. "Come sit, B."

She frowns but climbs onto the bed anyway. She watches Dan swallow and look infinitely more uncomfortable, eyes looking anywhere but at her. "Look, I'm really sorry I haven't been around," he blurts out finally, in a huge rush. He's still not looking her in the eye. "I've been busy."

"Uh huh." She hikes her skirt up a little, just to see him try to fight it. "Sure."

"I've got...I'm..." She watches him lose his trail of thought as his eyes zero in on her legs, watches him wet his lips in the middle of his sentence. Suddenly his eyes fly to her face, wide-eyed and horrified. "Oh my God, you know."

She smoothes out her skirt to a respectable length again and whacks him with her purse. She snaps, "Of course I know, you idiot."

Serena frowns. "Know what?"

"He had a dream about me!" 

"A dream?" Serena looks confused until recognition fills her eyes and her mouth starts twitching uncontrollably. "Oh, a dream."

Dan has turned a rich shade of scarlet. "I'm going to kill Nate, I really am."

"You're dirty," Blair accuses as Serena shakes with silent laughter. "Thanks for ruining this friendship. I can't ever be alone with you ever again."

Dan buries his head in his hands, looking mortified. "I'm sorry, okay? It's not like it happened on purpose. It's just...it's been a really long time, okay?"

Serena tilts her head to the side. "How long?"

"Since Vanessa."

"Since Vanessa?" Serena leaps out of her seat. "That's like a year."

"Ten months," Dan corrects her. "Not that I'm counting."

"God," Serena looks completely baffled. "You're hot, you're willing, you're available - just go out to a bar and pick a girl up. Itch? Scratched."

Blair's mouth sets in a frown. "He's not you, S," she says, somewhat snidely. "Picking girls up at seedy bars isn't his speed." She looks at Dan to confirm this fact, but to her horror, he doesn't look that adverse to the idea.

He shrugs, "I could try it out, I guess."

"Great!" Serena crows before Blair can offer any objections about what she is positive is the worst idea anyone in the history of life has ever had ever. "I'll take you out tonight!"

Yeah, Blair really hates all of Dan's friends.






She hates the way he sneaks into her thoughts. It makes her want to shoot herself in the face just thinking about it.

It's almost 2am and Dan and Serena still aren't back yet. She wonders if he's met a girl yet - if he's met several of them and it's just one long conga line of blonde bimbos that he's sleeping with in the bathrooms of the club. She wonders if he's striking out, if his nervous rambling and stupid hair is repelling them. She wonders if Serena is taking pity on him, if she's insisting no, Dan, you're a catch, really, those girls are all blind. Maybe they'll reconnect over gin tonics and they'll make eye contact and there'll be a moment and he'll pull his stupid moves on her. She wonders if Dan and Serena are having sex right now.

God, she wishes she could Lysol her brain. 

She tosses and turns all night, frustrated with herself for not falling asleep. It's almost 5am when she hears the elevator ding and then Serena's hushed whisper in the foyer. "B! B!"

With a groan, she gets out of bed and stumbles toward the stairs, dragging her sleeping mask to her forehead. "S? What's going on?"

It takes her a few seconds to adjust to the harsh lights but she blinks, twice, three times in succession and sees Serena there, teetering in her heels, one arm gripped around Dan's waist, his arm slung over her shoulder. "Blair!" he calls out joyfully and she wrinkles her nose. She can smell the tequila leaking from his pores from up here.

"B, can you help me take him?" Serena sounds exhausted. "He's so drunk, I couldn't leave him on his own. I have to run down and pay the cab driver." 

Blair almost wants to yell at Serena for being so irresponsible - how could she let him get so drunk? - but she holds her tongue and instead pries Dan's fingers from Serena's neck and wraps her arm around his stomach. "C'mon Humphrey," she mutters. He's at least twice as heavy as her and his whole weight on her delicate frame is like carrying a baby elephant up Everest. He keeps pressing his face into her hair, mumbling incoherently and more than once, they collapse in a heap on the stairs.

They get to her room and he drops, heavy-limbed, face-first onto her bed. She goes to the bathroom to get some aspirin and fill up a glass of water and for a quick second, she's struck with déjà vu. She went through this with Serena a million times when they were kids - Nate picking her up from some seedy bar in the Village and dropping her off at the Waldorfs, wasted out of her mind, Blair letting her crash on her bed while she set down a glass of water and aspiring for her in the morning. She never thought she'd be doing the same thing for Dan Humphrey, of all people, one day.

"Humphrey," she whispers quietly, scratching the back of his head lightly with her fingertips. She nudges the glass of cold water against his face. "Get up and drink this."

"Blair," he mumbles. He tugs her down so she's lying down too, grips her waist with one hand. "Hi," he whispers, smiling lopsidedly.

"Hi." Her mouth twitches. "God, Dan, you really smell so bad."

"I do not."

"You really do," Blair giggles softly. "How was your night?"

He sighs dramatically. "Not...good. My moves suck."

She suppresses a smile. "I told you, didn't I?"

"And," he continues, slurring, "all the girls I wanted to hook up with wanted to hook up with...with Serena. Stop laughing."

"I'm not." 

"Mmm, yes you are," he says sleepily and she watches his eyes drop closed. "I'm sorry I had a dirty dream about you. I didn't mean to."

She bites her lip, feels her face flush all over again. "It's okay."

"I don't know why..." His eyes open again and he's staring at her, not out of focus like before, but intense and deep, like the night they kissed, and the night they almost kissed all over again. "I don't know why I can't stop thinking about you."

She feels her breath hitch in her throat and she's nervous like the last time. She's Blair Waldorf, for Christ's sake, people are nervous because of her, not the other way around. She doesn't know what to say, but her lips involuntarily quirk upwards anyway. "Yeah?"

He nods quietly. "I lied. That...that day I told you I was always at Columbia because of Nate?" He laughs a little, drunkenly. "That was such a lie. I go there to be with you. It's a pain in the ass, you know? It takes a whole...a whole fuckin' hour to get there from NYU but...but all I want to do is be with you. All I ever want to do is be with you."

"Dan." Her heart is slamming against her chest, she wonders if he can hear it. "You're not going to remember this tomorrow."

"Doesn't make it any less true," he mumbles. "I love everything about you. I love your hair and how it always smells so stupidly nice. I love when you insult me and I love when you get annoyed because you get super handsy and...and I love when you touch me. I love when no one's around and you care about me...secretly, like when you came with me to my mom's wedding." He sighs and traces one long finger down the slope of her face, raising goosebumps in her flesh. "I really wish you felt something after we kissed because...because sometimes I really think I'm in love with you and I just feel like an idiot."

"You are an idiot," she says, but her voice, her eyes, are soft. "The biggest."

He laughs, deep and low. "You wanna hear about my dirty dream?"

"No."

"You were in your Constance uniform..."

"Humphrey, go to sleep."






She hates everything about him. 

She hates that he remembers nothing about that night, about his stupid drunken confession, that he basically told her he was in love with her and then promptly forgot all about it once morning rolled around. She hates that she's the one who has to deal with the implications of his confession - that she's the one who's eyeing him over coffee, who's tripping over words around him, who's thinking about him naked. God, he's infected her, he's literally poisoned her. That's the only explanation.

She hates that Serena and Nate are now gallivanting around town with him, trying to get him laid. She's pretty sure they've been successful and Nate's taught him a thing or two - he's got some serious game now. It's infuriating watching him make eyes at every pretty girl that comes into the coffee shop. He'll say, "Blair, hang on a sec," and he'll saunter, he will literally saunter over to whatever bimbo has caught his eye, and he'll grin and be charming and disarming and he'll swagger back a minute later with her phone number on a napkin. God, she wants to gag just thinking about it.

She just wants things to go back to normal - for him to argue with her about Tolstoy not hit on random girls, for him to sit way too close to her, for him to stare at her when he thinks she isn't looking (for him to get drunk and tell her things that make her blush, for him to have dirty dreams about her, for him to still be in love with her).

She runs to catch up with Nate one day, whacks him with her handbag. "I blame you," she hisses. 

"Ow, Blair."

"Not everyone is you, Nate!" she bursts out, frustrated. 

"Blair," Nate pouts a little, rubbing his arm. "I literally have no idea what you're talking about."

"You and Serena!" How does he not get this? "Turning Dan into...into...you guys."

Nate raises his eyebrows, "What's that meant to mean?"

"Slutty."

"We did him a favor! The guy hadn't been laid in almost a year and now he's getting some just about every night."

"How is that a good thing?" Her voice is getting shrill and Nate fixes her with a strange look.

"How is this a problem for you in any way?" 

Her shoulders slump and she can't help but sound forlorn. "It just...is, okay?"

"Woah," Nate stops in his tracks and stares at her. He places his hands on her shoulders, confusion creasing his face. "B, wait," his voice drops down to a low whisper. "Do you...do you like him?"

She considers his question for half a second before letting the rage sink in, fury flooding her face. She really hates everything about Dan Humphrey. "Ew, no," she snaps viciously and she slaps Nate's hands away from her. "Just because I want at least one of my friends to be STD-less doesn't mean I like him. God, Nate!"

She thinks things will settle. This pussy phase of Dan's is like Dorota's hats phase - bound to pass when he realizes just  how hideous and unbecoming it is. But then it's one month and then two and she's literally going crazy, watching his endless queue of girls. Serena and Nate encourage it like a bunch of godless heathens, of course, and she really wonders if she's the only one of them who possesses any shred of dignity anymore.

They're comparing notes for their respective lit finals one night, on the floor of her bedroom, a sea of textbooks and color-coded cue cards surrounding them. When his phone buzzes, she tries not to look annoyed, but that idea flies out the window the second he gets up on his feet and says, "Hey, sorry, but I gotta go."

She grinds her teeth together slowly. "You have to go?"

"Yeah, I have a date."

"You're ditching me to get laid?"

Dan furrows his brow. "I'm not sleeping with her, I'm going on a date."

She snorts, "Oh, is that what the kids are calling it nowadays?"

"Wait, I don't get it, why are you mad?" He frowns quizzically at her. "You bail on our plans all the time to go shopping with Serena."

She tips her head toward her ceiling frustratedly. "I'm not sleeping with Serena, you idiot!"

"Oka-a-a-y." He looks half-amused, half-confused at her agitation. "I'm not even going to pretend I understand what's going on right now, so, uh, I'm just gonna go, and you can call me later when you've calmed down."

He makes a move for the door, and really, how is he so stupid that he doesn't just get it? She grabs the lapels of his coat and she doesn't know what the fuck she's doing, all she knows is that she can't stand the thought of him leaving her to go be with another girl - someone who isn't her and who doesn't know him like she does. Before she can even process anything, she's shoving him against the wall, her mouth crashing into his. And this...this, yes, this is what she'd been waiting for, what she'd been wanting to do since she kissed him that first time, since she couldn't stop staring at him at that stupid opera, since he tried his moves on her and didn't follow through and she was so disappointed because...this, this is what she wants, what she's wanted for so long. He responds immediately, hands sliding around her waist, and she can't help but feel slightly smug. He's still hers.

He pulls away after a few minutes and her mouth feels raw, kissed free of lipgloss. "Oh God, Blair." He's breathless, looking at her with wide, brown eyes. "What was that? What are you doing?"

She doesn't say anything and instead leads him to her bed, pushes him back against the cushions. She can hear him muttering 'oh God, oh God' over and over again, but he doesn't stop her, he's just staring at her, wide-eyed, like this isn't real, it's just a dream, and he'll wake up any second now and need to wash his sheets.

She gets up on top of him, feels him beneath her, hardening with every grind of her hips. Slowly, aware of his unblinking gaze on her, she pulls at the ribbon at the back of her dress, watches the way his breathing gets shallow and his hands clench into fists at his side when it falls away to reveal the lace and silk of her lingerie.

She takes one of his hands and without breaking his gaze, presses a soft kiss to the tip of each finger. He wants her so badly, she can feel it, feel every part of him against her. Interlacing their fingers, she slowly drags his palm down the curve of her neck, lower even and his breathing gets even more ragged. "Did it happen like this in your dream?" she whispers, as his fingertips dance across the swell of her breasts.

"Blair," his voice is plaintive, a plea. For what, she doesn't know.

She guides his hand down even further, across the planes of her stomach, down to the edges of her panties, and lower, lower, until the edges of his fingers brush across her center and she can hear him say again, 'oh God', can feel his groan rumble all the way through his chest. His fingers are rubbing against the silk of her underwear and she gives a breathy little sigh, takes his wrist and curls his fingers past the fabric and...oh.

Then, as quickly as he'd gotten the hint, he drops his hand away and she opens her eyes and he's looking at her, nervous and horny. "Blair," his voice is low and hoarse. "What the fuck are we doing?"

She licks her lips slowly. "Don't you want me?" It's a stupid question, they both know he does. 

"It's not that...it's...fuck, I don't..." He groans, pinches the bridge of his nose with two fingers. "It's just that I...fuck, I think I sort of like you...more than a friend sometimes and we shouldn't...we really shouldn't do this because I don't think I can...fuck."

She lifts herself off of him and he looks half-relieved, half-disappointed. She sits there beside him in her underwear, knees folded beneath her, feeling like an idiot. God, she really hates him. She hates him for doing this to her, for making her feel like an idiot, for making her want him this badly, for making her feel this way about him. "I know," she says quietly.

"Wait," he sits up on his elbows. "You know? Oh God, Nate told you, right?"

"Nate knows?" she frowns. "No, Nate didn't tell me. You told me, that night you went out with Serena and got drunk."

"I told you?" He looks like he wants to kill himself, which is, coincidentally, exactly what she feels like. "What did I say exactly?"

She feels young and breakable. "That you were in love with me," she says in a small voice. She watches him for a moment, the way he's running his hands through his hair, and then she asks quietly, "Was it the truth?"

Her heart's lurching in her chest, pounding against her ribcage. "I..." His eyes are so earnest. "Yeah, it was. It is. God, you don't even know how true it is. I am so far gone for you, Blair Waldorf, I swear, you have no idea." He's smiling at her, so wide.

She glares at him a little, "You're sleeping with other girls."

"Is that what Nate told you?" He shakes his head. "I'm not sleeping with them, I'm just going out with them - seeing if there's one I like enough to take out on an actual date."

She smiles at him a little, the smallest turn of her lips, "And?"

"What do you think?" His hand is on her knee, stroking gentle circles, soft, tentative.

She bites back a smile. "I want to hear you say it."

"Why don't you say it?"

"I asked first."

His laugh echoes in her ears. "Are we really doing this right now?" He sits up, presses a kiss to her bare shoulder, his hands brushing lightly against her hipbones. "I'm still like, really horny."

She shoves him away, fighting a smile. "Say it," she pouts. 

He gives a long, over-dramatic sigh and then his mouth is at her ear, his voice soft and lilting, like that night he sang Moon River to her under the stars. "I love you," he whispers low against her cheek and there's a smile blooming on her face, unstoppable. "Now you."

She pauses for a moment, lets him capture her lips in a soft kiss.

"I hate you," she mumbles instead and there's a catch in her heart just saying it.

-

*stolen shamelessly from the most flawless tv show of all time, parks & rec